


not giving in to the cries and the wails of the valley below

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma, Set in Season 1, and also in the background crushing on jon who is acting like a normal person sort og, hey so what if martin was like visibly traumatized by the worms., self harm (see notes), trauma compulsions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: Jon’s stupid fingers and stupid hair and stupid clothes, his horrible eyes and mean mouth and this constant, relentless aching in Martin’s bones and teeth and temples, this constant itching in his skin, the buzz of insects and anger and desperation and overwhelming loneliness, something angry and namelessly coppery.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 146





	not giving in to the cries and the wails of the valley below

**Author's Note:**

> the self harm is mostly contemplated, not really acted upon - the worst that actually happens is aggressive hand/arm washing to the point of blood, but it's compulsive and self harm-y so watch out
> 
> wow one of these scenes is like, if this was a ship i didnt like i would be like 'ummm thats creepy :////' but i dont care. 
> 
> title is frommmmm a better son/daughter by rilo kiley which is a highly martincore song

i. Martin has this thing about pinpointing what’s wrong with people and then fixing it, or at least trying his hardest to. 

Like: Jon. Purple-blue eyebags. 

He’s not sure what it is about him that draws him in so strongly. He thinks about this while putting on the kettle, digging out tea bags, setting the mugs on the counter, worn and stained porcelain on the ever-dusty wood. Maybe it’s just the possibility of approval from someone that doesn’t even like you. 

But –

There’s a certain thing in Jon’s eyes. Not that he gets to look into them a lot, not often, and most of the time they’re filled with sharp, pointed annoyance, but every so often they’ll walk past each other in the corridor, or he’ll poke his head into the office and their eyes will meet, for just a second, Jon caught off guard or thinking about something, and there’ll be something. Something small, non-specific enough to know that it could just be his subconsciousness inserting what it wants where it wants – something sharp. Something hollow. Something unsettling. 

Not like with Elias, whose eyes are cold and sharp and calm but transparently smug, like he knows something you don’t, like he’s trying to come across as nice if a little distant but there’s something dark underneath that. Like he’s watching you. Like he sees through your skin and your skull and right into your very essence, whatever chemical reactions happen in your brain, like he can follow the synapses and the nerves.

It’s more like –

Like making eye contact with a deer stopped in your headlights in the middle of the night, the animal stubbornly stuck in its spot on the road after you’ve come to a skidding stop right in front of it, the eyes shining and white and otherworldly and frightening in the bright lights, bouncing off the glistening road below. The world still, the road empty all around you, windows rolled down, the smell of moss and damp earth filling your brain. A sense of dread. Like you should be somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

Martin guesses he sees himself there. Always feeling like the other shoe is about to drop. Always stuck. Something pulling him back, something stopping him from leaving, keeping him still and stuck and, _safe_ , if only against his will. Jon, pacing around his office like a caged animal or sitting behind his desk with a look in his eyes halfway between fury and desperation. He doesn’t even think he believes in these statements. Martin’s not sure why he’s here, why he’s angry and frustrated and annoyed and so focused in this work he doesn’t seem to even believe in, why he’s sending him and Tim and Sasha on all of these wild goose chases after any shred of evidence for the veracity of these stories, these stories Tim clings to, stories Martin clings to, stories Jon records and puts back where they came from and seemingly forgets, these statements, these intimate looks into other people’s brains, these words carved out of trauma and misery and fear.

He wants to reach out. He also doesn’t. That sharpness, that smell of mud, and moss, and crisp air. Something frightening, something scary and sharp and resilient.

–

ii. He would like to not think about the worms. Sleeping in the archives doesn’t help. Nothing does.

Jon, as usual, doesn’t seem to care much - he’d said _why don’t you just sleep here then we’ll figure out how to make a room safe and secure for you_ and Martin had said _okay_ , surprised that he’d taken him seriously at all. 

At least there’s one constant, one shimmering bright light to balance and circle himself around, like a little moon orbiting a sad, angry planet that liked it better when he went home at the end of the night. Maybe there’s some sort of feeling in his voice when he asks how he is. Maybe there isn’t. Hard to say.

He brings him tea, some manic energy in the base of his neck buzzing until he makes himself useful in some way at least, some sort of an effort to do something for someone else, just, something. This whole time there’s this urgent itching in his head, this crawling. 

Dutiful. Fixing people. Identifying problems and fixing them. Maybe it’ll make him like him. And it’s not like he won’t like tea – they’re English, god's sake – and tea’s the most inoffensive, universally liked food item to offer to someone. And yet something about it makes him feel useless. Anyone can make tea. If he got Jon a kettle for his office, a mug, a box of the fancier kind of Sainsbury tea, maybe even something from M&S - and then he has a thought of _does anyone younger than fifty even shop there?_ \- he’s sure he’d appreciate it more. Less distraction. All the convenience. It might even make him like Martin more - glance over at the little tea station, think about him, have a little warm thought while he pours his water, waits for the tea to steep.

But there’s something selfish about it, too, something that a simple one-off gift wouldn’t fulfill - a need to see him, to be seen, to talk to him and see those frustrated, annoyed eyes, the eyebags, the messy hair. It’s as selfish as he’s letting himself be without feeling bad about it. Indulgent. He deserves that at least, fuckssake. And it’s good for Jon to come out of his office occasionally, too, make the small talk he hates so much, interact with him and Tim and Sasha, even if it’s to take a handful of biscuits and retreat back into the office to gnaw on them like a bridge troll. A favor, really. 

It makes anger rise up in his throat sometimes. All this and more. He’s not going to name these feelings. He is not going to give them power. He is not going to let them simmer. The only thing boiling over in this building is going to be water in an overfilled kettle. Jon’s stupid fingers and stupid hair and stupid clothes, his horrible eyes and mean mouth and this constant, relentless aching in Martin’s bones and teeth and temples, this constant itching in his skin, the buzz of insects and anger and desperation and overwhelming loneliness, something angry and namelessly coppery, like biting down on someone’s hand hard and feeling the bones between your teeth, having to make the conscious decision to pull back before making serious harm, like chopping carrots and having to press down with the knife blade with a split second flash of realization of the similarities between bone and carrot, the whitening of your vision before a nose bleed. 

He scratches his arm absently. He doesn’t realize it’s drawing blood until his fingers are wet. Huh.

“Martin?”

Jon, emerging from his office, eyes bloodshot, jacket bunched up in his hand, voice tired. He swears he can hear the fucking butterflies. Like wasps. Buzzing in his numb head, brain going fuzzy, a stammering “yes?” coming out of his mouth like mud pouring into a storm drain, thick and slow. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Jon just nods. Martin has no idea whether or not he believes him, or whether or not he even cares to have an opinion either way. 

Jon walks past him, their shoulders brushing briefly. Martin lets the contact move his body gently, rock it back, then back forward. 

At the end of the hallway Jon turns around. Martin doesn’t turn to look at him, but he can feel his presence linger in the doorway, his gaze burning a hole into the back of his head. They stand like that for what feels like minutes; Martin counting seconds while blood rushes through his head. 

Jon breaks first. He sighs. Rustles his jacket, puts it on. Kicks his shoes against the bottom of the door gently. 

“Goodnight, Martin.”

The hallway light turns off. Jon steps out into the lobby. The door clicks shut with quiet resolution. On the other side of the door Jon locks it. Martin can’t hear his footsteps lead into the lobby, make their way to the front door. The hallway seems endless in the dark, the wall across from him invisible, the long stretch of floor and wall on both sides strangely full of promise; like they could be anything; like they have the potential to be whatever he wants them to be. 

His mouth tastes like iron. He feels itchy all over.

–

iii. Pulling the corkscrew out of his pocket, putting it back, taking it out again. It’s so shiny and sharp and metallic in his hand, cool and heavy. Comforting. He sits in the suffocating little room and presses the point of the screw against the skin of his thigh, slow, deliberate, just light enough to not pierce skin, not entirely sure what he’s doing it for.

–

iv. Martin makes himself useful. He sleeps. He dreams. He checks himself for worms. He plays with his corkscrew and feels the weight and the shape and the sharpness. He does research and he brings Jon tea and he almost never wants it and he and Tim and Sasha barely talk but he tries anyway. It feels lonely.

And yet, this whole time, there’s Jon, his dark and annoyed eyes, those sharp cheeks. Deer in headlights eyes. Rabbit on the side of the road eyes. Something-in-the-distance eyes. 

Sometimes he sits in the hallway outside of Jon’s office. If he’s quiet and still he can hear him - the steady cadence of his voice, the news anchor -perfect enunciation, that tone he gets when he gets into the statement, like an all-consuming fire taking hold of him. He can get so mean about them after he’s done with them but while he’s reading them he always sounds so serious. Almost gentle, almost respectful. It’s comforting. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend he’s reading _to_ him, like there’s a level of intimacy in this little ritual that doesn’t actually exist. Jon reciting other people’s words to a cold tape recording, immortalizing these confessions, and Martin, in the hallway, absorbing the words through his skin, trying so hard to cling to how they sound coming out of Jon’s mouth. He doesn’t think about the worms. He doesn’t think.

Sasha sees him there, sometimes. She doesn’t say anything - blessed Sasha, kind Sasha, the exact opposite of some people he knows who would sell him out in a second just for the drama of it all. She doesn’t smile, or make a face, but he thinks sometimes there’s a twinkle of emotion in her eyes. It’s hard to say what it is, exactly. Maybe amusement. Maybe pity. Maybe disgust. No – not disgust. Not Sasha. Hard to say what’s true and what’s projection. 

Days and days and days and days and days and days, or maybe less days, maybe, hours and hours and hours and hours, throwing himself into research, tying up loose ends, learning new knots to turn the ropes into, throwing himself into anything that will let itself be thrown something onto. Hours and hours and hours. Sasha shares her snacks with him. Maybe she should be sleeping here too. Martin feels so lonely and alone and vulnerable. Jon’s voice only does so much. 

He falls asleep on the floor. He wakes up in the middle of the night feeling groggy and upset, too warm, the taste of mud in his mouth, a coat draped carefully around his curled up body.

–

v. This building feels less safe by the day. He couldn’t say why, but it feels like something is burrowing in the structures. Just watching. Just sharpening its claws against the wood and brick and cement of the foundations like a bored house cat. It’s making everything so much worse.

Sasha kills the guy with the worms with a fire extinguisher and Martin’s skin itches for days, every time he looks at Sasha, every time he thinks about it, every time he thinks, every second he’s awake. He wants nothing more than to shed this contaminated skin, be rid of it, pure and clean and safe. 

He stands in the bathroom, scrubbing his arms until they’re red and raw, and then he just stands there, in front of the still running tap, watching the solid white water rush into the sink. It’s too fast, too much, the drain struggling to keep up, threatening to fill with water. Martin feels that way too. Full, up to his neck now. He can feel it in his throat. About to overflow. 

Jon comes in. He looks surprised for a second, and then it softens into something else.

Those deer eyes. Something something eyes. It’s so hard to think in metaphors. Martin’s sure he looks like he’s been repeatedly punched in the face. He’s just not sleeping much unless it’s sitting up.

Jon doesn’t say anything but he does come over to turn the tap off. Martin is suddenly aware of the fact that he’s shaking, knees clattering against each other awkwardly, arms dripping water all over the floor and onto his clothes. There’s a tiny puddle on the floor, big enough for someone to step in, not much bigger than that.

“It’s too much,” Martin says, quiet, “there’s too many. I can’t keep them out.”

“You can” Jon says, insistently, “you’re safe. We’re safe.”

He doesn’t touch him. Martin sways on his feet gently and thinks about leaning forward to put his head on Jon’s shoulder, wrap his soaking wet arms around his waist, just gently, just barely, just to feel something against his skin, something other than this terrifying void, this absence, this numb terror creeping up his skin again.

He’s almost angry again, a subtle rage building up. He lets go of it. Jon looks at him like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. He walks out and then it’s just Martin and his shaking frame and –

–

vi. Sometimes when he closes his eyes he thinks, at least with the worms, if he’d let them in, maybe he wouldn’t be so alone. At least he’d have something. Someone. He thinks of Jane Prentiss and her despair. He thinks of her and yearns, his heart feeling as if it’s about to explode out of his chest.

He always throws up after.

–

vii. He’s almost wishing for something. An explosion. An earthquake. Something is approaching but he doesn’t know what, and the not knowing is always worse. Like waiting for rain in a desert, the plants drooping in the drought. He wishes something would just happen. Some sort of a resolution. Making himself useful. Fixing whatever he can. Jon. Sasha. Tim. Only so much tea he can make.

Putting the corkscrew into his pocket. Taking it out again. Putting it into his pocket. Taking it out and teasing the skin of his arm with just the sharp tip. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for that heavy moon to finally wane into nothing, for the oppressive sun watching over his shoulder to set, burning its marks into his skin, something. He wants something to happen. Dusk to dawn he sits in this room and stares into nothing. He thinks of dirt fields waiting for rain. He thinks about calling his mom. Dust to dust. 

He wonders if his mom ever misses him. He sleeps. He wakes up. He makes himself useful. He scrubs any part of his skin he can reach until it bleeds. No worms this time. No worms ever. Any time. This time. Ever?

It’s like a too-long hot summer. The fields already sun bleached, the months stretching like a mountain range, everywhere around him, no matter which way he turns. 

He thinks, distantly, maybe this is how it will always be. Maybe this is the fate he deserves. This paranoia. This inability to trust his own senses, his own skin, his own nerves - this body to keep him safe. 

He sits down. Takes the corkscrew out of his pocket. Puts it back again. Takes it out.

And then there’s screams.

And then the fire alarms go off.

**Author's Note:**

> i am, on tumblr, at blqckwoods, because everyone in this fandom loves martin and wants a canon url


End file.
